A mile or so up the road from our home sits an elementary, a middle and a high school lined up neatly in a row. I know a lot of kids who attend them and are taught by friends who live out their calling behind the brick walls. Today, those walls and halls came to life as students of varied ages, aptitudes, and attitudes arrived to begin the 2024-25 school year.
I made note of that as Cotton and I shared our early morning walk, trying to get ahead of the dog day heat. Right away we saw what looked to be an early aged teen flanked by parents on the two-block trek to a crossroad. Too old to need (or want) the escort, she begrudgingly posed for a photo. It reminded me of Forrest Gump’s kid climbing aboard the Blue Bird yellow bus. Cotton seemed to see sweet humor in the moment and loitered long enough to take it in. And since my hundred-pound walking buddy insisted on observing the moment, I got to as well. And we both smiled.
In the second cul-de-sac, what couldn’t have been more than a first grader stood with head high and back to the family front door. Cheese! Big willing smile from this one, with joy and pride exuding from taker and take-ee. Right as the dad and son went back inside, a teenager from the house next door plopped into the passenger seat of the family sedan with chauffeur mom ready for her drive-by drop off. He looked old enough to drive and probably would have preferred to. Mom seemed pleased enough that he did not.
My guess is that those kids were headed, one each, to the schools up the road. They likely joined up with hundreds of others whose summer ended today with the words “Wake up; it’s time for school.” I wonder what awaited them. What classes will they take? Will there be a best friend and a welcome seat at the lunchroom table? And what if there is not? Which teacher will spark their interest or meet some hidden need? What lessons will they learn in the subjects they struggle with most? What are their parent’s greatest hopes? And greatest fears?
With Cotton lumbering back home, my mind traveled back to a late summer morn, South Georgia, early nineties. We took that picture in front of an azalea hedge just before walking our sons to the elementary school up the street. The fourth grader held the kindergartener’s hand, and Lisa and I walked just far enough behind that they couldn’t see us cry. Today, they’ve got two kids apiece, the youngest same age now as the youngest then. The oldest is just a year away from high school with two sisters sitting in some grades between. I’ll never know how that happened so fast. I’m guessing the boys in that old photograph won’t either.
Over coffee, I prayed for the kids in those just snapped, soon to be framed pictures. And for the thousands like them in our city. I gave thanks for the teachers, administrators and helpers who will have a lot to say about the kind of year they have, and the kind of student they might become. And I pondered the precious privilege of sending a child off to school. I hope that all those called on to supply the enormous sums of effort, expense and emotion that parenting extracts, will take a moment to treasure days like these. They will be memories soon enough.
Don’t ask me how I know.
I just know.